The Difference Between Bonds and Chains
by Jean Hicks
Summary: AU in which John doesn't like the way of things and Sherlock is quite bad at keeping his mouth shut. NOT Johnlock. "At least at the House he knew what was expected, and he knew exactly how to work the situation into his favor. He was a master manipulator. He hadn't wanted to leave..." Slight kink undertones, exactly nothing graphic. More info inside. Read, review, and enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** And now for something else completely different. AU. Kink undertones, but nothing graphic. Rated T for discussions of suicide, violence, nudity and sexual situations, but, again, nothing graphic. Surprisingly, not Johnlock beyond any friendly interactions. Sherlock will still solve crimes. We'll get there, eventually. My goal is to have this as my summer piece to keep my writing up while I'm not taking classes. I'd love to have your feedback in the meantime! Thanks all!

* * *

He stares at the wall of his flat, intricately decorated with a black and white damask, and considers shooting himself in the head. He has just turned thirty, and he has received his eighth and final notice. It's an unassuming blue sheet of paper, filled with fine black type. He already knows what it says. He doesn't even need to read it. Like all of the others, it will end up crumpled in the bottom of the rubbish bin.

John was able to dodge the first three notices on account of military service, but once he was invalided, the notices came like clock-work, every birthday, as if to remind him "You are still alive, and you are still alone."

This was completely, utterly unacceptable.

He begged off the next three with excuses from his therapist saying he was an unfit partner. She began to wary of the excuses, though. Last year he had been forced to go to the houses and survey the stock, but he managed to convince the Matrons and Masters that none of the year's offerings had pleased him. He would come back in a year.

A year had passed.

Thirty years old and still alone.

John stares at the wall. He could end it now, he thinks, with the gun he's managed to keep secreted away in the drawer of his desk. He wouldn't have to make another trip to the houses. He wouldn't have to choose. The thought of choosing another human being to take as his partner made his stomach turn summersaults and his vision go fuzzy on the edges.

Then again, a voice that sounded surprisingly like his mother reminded him, if he had been able to find a partner in the years previous this whole nasty situation could have been avoided. John wants to argue, he wants to say that you can't force love and trying to do so, simply for the sake of tradition, was ridiculous.

Then John's mother would tut and say that it 'worked very well for me and your father, thank you very much.' John doesn't dare think about his sister, Harriet, who had been sent to the houses when she was sixteen. The rules were always very clear what would happen to the children born after the first.

One for the family, the rest for the world.

He shivers and thinks of her complacence. Her determination that she would be placed with a great husband or wife and together they would have a family. He remembers shaking her shoulders and whispering harshly in her face, "We have a good family now, Harry. Why must it be this way?" She just smiled and patted his cheek.

"Because this is the way of things, John."

He never spoke to her again.

He joined the army to avoid 'the way of things.'

He lied to his therapist to avoid 'the way of things.'

Aside from a bullet in the head, there will be no more avoidance.

They won't let him leave again empty handed.

* * *

Sometime later he hears his landlady open the door to his flat. "Happy Birthday, John." She says loudly, setting down a tray of biscuits and tea on the table.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He says, standing and observing the tray.

"Just a bit of a nibble because it's your special day, don't expect it! Not your housekeeper!" She chirps, smoothing the front of her purple dress. She is old enough to be his mother, and he truly loves her. She's giving him a bit of a discount on the flat, because she needed to rent the space and he happens to be good at fixing the leaky pipes and creaking floorboards.

She notices the notice in his hand and smiles a knowing, sad smile. He wonders if she knows his turmoil. He wonders if she knows he sits up here and thinks about the end of it all while she watches telly and drinks tea in her den. She pours him a cup of tea and urges him to sit for a moment and have a biscuit.

Mrs. Hudson grew up in the houses, her parents having dropped her off when she was very small. She cannot remember them, but she imagines she had to have had a brother or sister, perhaps several brothers or sisters. She was not the first child, and that made all the difference.

She was chosen when she was seventeen by a man a bit older than her. At first, she told John once, it was heaven. Then, as they grew older, it turned to hell.

She still has the scars to prove it, but she doesn't talk about them much. She doesn't talk about him much either. He died when he was fifty. He left her freedom, a flat in central London, and a bit of money in a trust fund. "He may have been awful, but at least I was set up well after he finally died." She joked.

"I have to choose someone this year." He says after finishing a handful of chocolate biscuits. Mrs. Hudson nods.

"Best go put on your beige jumper, the corded one," She says, "It really brings out your eyes."

* * *

John is always on the defensive when he approaches the houses. They are, on the outside, well cleaned and respectable. In the foyers and display rooms, the houses are impeccable. Of course, these are the houses where those who have completed their training stay. The other houses, for those still growing, those still needing to be trained, are further out of London. He imagines they don't look as opulent as the imposing white building in front of him.

"Such is the way of things." He mutters under his breath as he lifts the knocker on the expansive black door.

A girl, no more than seventeen, opens the door. She is clad in a gossamer gown. She is thin, doe eyed, and her dark hair hangs delicately around her face. The black sash around her waist marks her as a Matron in training. She invites him in, takes his notice, and then instructs him to wait. "The Master of the House will see you shortly." She says in an ethereal voice that's meant to put him at ease, but instead it makes his blood run cold.

"Doctor Watson!" A jovial voice says in front of him. "How lovely to meet you this fine day, and, may I say, many happy returns!" He holds out a hand, square and topped with clean, blunt nails. He is tall and bulky, but not necessarily fat. His hair is fine and light and his eyes are a deep blue. When they shake hands, John can feel callouses he didn't expect on the man's palms. "Mycroft Holmes. It is my pleasure to be of service."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." John says, releasing Mycroft's hand. He breathes in. "I must admit, I'm a little reluctant to be here."

"Oh, Doctor Watson, no need to be reluctant. I'm sure we'll have something here to suit the taste of a _bachelor_ such as yourself." The way he says 'bachelor' makes John's mouth sour. "Now, your records indicate that you're already familiar with the procedure, so how about we go directly to the displays?"

He wonders how Mycroft can speak of human beings in such a way and not be ill.

No matter, John follows Mycroft down a gilded hall and into a close, warm den. They both sit in leather wingback chairs facing an empty section of hardwood floor. Mycroft motions for an attendant and then turns to John. "Would you be interested in any practical demonstrations today, Doctor? We have in house, currently, a Master highly trained in the art of the whip and a Matron particularly fond of the rope."

John shakes his head, coughs. "No. No, I think just observation will be good."

"Of course." Mycroft smiles. "A young madam to interest you today, Doctor?"

"Yes. Yea… I mean… definitely…" He stutters.

"We cater to all kinds here in this House, no need to be ashamed." Mycroft gives a knowing smile and the attendant sweeps out of the room. He returns, leading a woman by a leather strap. He places her directly in the center of the open spot, facing both men. Her hands are clasped elegantly in front of her, bound loosely in leather cuffs. Her hair is a brilliant red and she has a dusting of freckles across her pale skin. The freckles spread across her shoulders. She is bare save for a thin veil across her waist. Mycroft smiles. "Very good, Anna, darling." He praises. She beams and the focuses her eyes on John who tries not to look away in embarrassment.

"Anna Marie is twenty-five. She has been training with us for ten years, and she is consistently in the top of her class. She has many talents, Doctor." He motions for her to turn around, which she does obediently baring her thin toned back and round ass. "Anna Marie has been classically educated and, in addition to her work as a sister of the House, she trains her younger brothers and sisters in reading and maths."

"That's a lot of education for someone who lives in a life like this, isn't it?" John asks before he can stop himself. Mycroft looks somewhat affronted.

"Perhaps in lesser Houses that would be the case. I train premium life partners here, Doctor Watson, and to me that means the brothers and sisters are obedient _and_ intelligent." John holds up his hand.

"I didn't mean any offense." He says softly. Mycroft glances at Anna, who has turned back around and is looking at John.

"What do you say, Doctor Watson?"

John looks at the girl in front of him. She looks kind of like Harry. Their eyes are the same color. He winces at the memory. "I'm sorry." He speaks to them both. The attendant removes her and fetches another.

The next woman is the color of caramel with soft hair and large coffee colored eyes.

The woman after that is tan and fit and narrow.

The next is larger, with swaying hips and breasts and a wickedly fun looking smile.

He passes them all. He knows he has to choose someone, but he cannot. He cannot chose a partner when they are being paraded like livestock through a room. His wiring must be wrong. He thinks of Mrs. Hudson, how she had been paraded like this. How many men had turned her away before her husband found her?

Mycroft is speaking, "Perhaps if you were to let us know some of your preferences, I can assist you in making a better choice, Doctor."

John blinks owlishly, drawn back from his own thoughts. "Yea… haven't got any football fans, have you?"

Mycroft smirks.

The attendant brings in a woman with straw blonde hair and blue eyes. Her cheeks are pleasantly flushed in embarrassment. "Mary is twenty eight, and she has been a sister of our House since she was four." He continues to spout a list of facts about Mary's services and training, he turns her around with a regal wave of her hand, "And she happens to be, if I recall correctly, quite fond of Manchester United."

John contemplates.

"Her processing fee is sizeable," Mycroft reminds, "But I promise you she is well worth the price."

He has to make a choice. He thinks about the gun in his drawer at home. Perhaps he can leave Mary a widow, leave her with his savings, meager though they may be, and her freedom. The ability to see the world, to go to a football match. John thinks he would like this. He is about to accept Mycroft's offer when the door bursts open in a flurry of activity. Two attendants run in on the heels of a tall, impossibly thin man.

His body is all planes and angles, pale and shining. Like the women, he is naked except for the cloth around his waist. His wrists, though encased in two identical black leather cuffs, are not bound.

The attendants are apologizing.

"Oh, do shut up!" The man snaps. He has raven hair. His cheekbones are incredibly defined. His voice is thunderous when he speaks, "Mycroft you promised that you would have new books delivered to our library yesterday…"

Mycroft cuts across him. "What shall you call me in this room?" He says with a quiet ferocity that dulls the glint behind the man's sea-foam eyes. "And further still, can you not see that I am in the middle of a display?"

The man looks petulant. "I'm bored…" He almost whines.

"You are selfish. Has your training taught you _nothing_ of respect!?" The attendants have approached, but Mycroft brushes them away with a wave of his hand. "On your knees, as you belong."

John is still in his chair, eyes torn between the new visitor and the floor.

"You dishonor this House, you dishonor yourself, and you dishonor Doctor Watson!" Mycroft Holmes says loudly, causing John to look up at the exact time the visitor does. The man's eyes widen and his mouth purses into a perfect little bow. "On your knees, Sherlock. I will not ask thrice."

Obediently, the man, Sherlock, slides onto his knees. It is one of the most graceful acts John has ever seen, especially from someone who is long limbed and awkward. His knees are spread as wide as his shoulders and he's not quite resting on his heels.

"You will stay here, at my feet, and complete your recitation. In Latin." Sherlock looks as if he is about to complain. "If you have anything to say, you may take it up with the lash tonight."

Sherlock bows his head in surrender, "Yes, Master."

Mycroft ignores the supplication and seats himself. "I am so terribly sorry for the disruption."

Sherlock has begun mumbling under his breath, lines of poetry and rhyme. John is transfixed. He shakes his head and turns to Mycroft. "It's fine."

"My brother can be quite insufferable." Mycroft adds with a small laugh.

"Your brother?" Mycroft makes a non-committal noise. Their eyes meet. John shakes his head as if trying to clear a fog. He cannot. Mycroft would treat his own brother in such a way? _Such is the way of things…_

He sends Mary away, as well as the two women after that. By now, Sherlock has finished speaking, but Mycroft ignores him. He fidgets on thighs that must be burning, John can see the muscles shaking. Finally, Mycroft motions to the attendants. "Take Sherlock away please, and bring in another woman." He sounds as if he is growing tired.

"No." John says before his mind can stop him. "I've made my choice." He coughs now, confidence failing. "Sherlock. I'd like Sherlock." Sherlock is staring with wide eyes. Mycroft looks at him from slanted lids. "He is available, yes?" The white sash at Sherlock's waist says as much.

"He has not successfully completed his training. I cannot in good faith…"

"I've made my choice." John says again, leaving no room for argument.

Mycroft's lips twitch upward in a somewhat pained smile. "Very well."

* * *

In the taxi, Sherlock rubs his long hands around the black leather cuffs at his wrists. They are soft, supple beneath his fingers and worn from years of use. The inside of each cuff contains a d-ring, which could be used to join his hands together and lead him with a strap. He had seen others lead out of the House in such a fashion, but John had insisted he walk out with his hands unbound.

"I can take them off, when we get back to the flat, if you like." John says.

"I'd rather you didn't." Sherlock says, looks away, and feels uncomfortable.

John nods, rubs the back of his neck with his hand. "All right. That's fine."

"Is it?" Sherlock questions the window as he watches London roll by.

John is silent.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson doesn't meet them at the door and John is glad for that small miracle. Sherlock is still nearly naked. Its midwinter and he must be cold, but he appears not to notice the temperature. Sherlock brought with him a suitcase of books and a violin, claiming he had no other possessions. "Don't you have a pair of clothes?" John asks as he helps haul the books up the seventeen steps to his (their?) flat.

"I had no use for them at the House." He says simply.

Another awkward silence passes over the two of them.

John shows Sherlock to his bedroom. "Do you stay here as well?" Sherlock looks at the small bed.

"No, my room is just down the hall across from the loo."

"Oh. You mean, you don't intend to..."

John smiles and his cheeks flush. "Ummm…"

"It's fine. Different. An anomaly. I like that." Sherlock says simply, opening up his case of books.

"All right. I'll just… let you get settled."

* * *

John finds Sherlock a vest and a pair of too-short pajama pants which look ridiculous on him and even more ridiculous on Sherlock's long legs. Sherlock dresses obediently and then returns to the living room. He looks around, unsure of what to do with himself.

"Make yourself at home. I'm going to make tea. Interested?" John is in the kitchen and Sherlock looks even more lost.

"I think I'm supposed to do that for you." He says.

"Anomaly, remember?" John smiles and it feels friendly.

How strange.

"It's not what you think." Sherlock says out of nowhere. John looks up from his paper and gives an inquisitive hum. "You think it's a cruel system. You probably had a sibling who was given to the Houses. You find the whole thing repulsive. Most of all, you don't understand why my own brother would choose to train me as a brother of the House rather than a Master. I think that's why you chose me, in the end. Add to the fact that you have no desire in pursuing sexual relationships and you had to make a choice today. I was… somewhat logical."

John purses his lips and tilts his head. "How did you know all that?"

"I'm very good at observing things." Sherlock offers no other explanation.

"Brilliant, and true, I might add." John turns his attention back to the paper.

"That's not what people usually say." John smiles. "But as I said, it's not what you think. I chose my own path."

"You chose to be paraded around nearly naked, placed in front of men and women like livestock, reprimanded and scolded like children? Beaten? Trained in the 'arts of pleasure and pain'?" John says in disbelief, quoting the words like they're an advert on television.

"Yes." Sherlock shrugs. "I suppose I enjoy the challenge." He is silent. "They teach us good things too." He adds after a while. "My education is quite well-rounded."

John just shakes his head.

The silence stretches between them like a chasm. "You were planning on killing yourself." Sherlock says when the distance becomes too much.

John's blue eyes flash. He looks at Sherlock, alarmed. "Time for me to turn in, I think." It's all he can manage. He rustles the paper around and makes a show of placing it down on the desk.

Sherlock says nothing. He stares out the window and watches the cars pass on Baker Street below.

Mycroft had warned him that his mouth was his problem. He was perfectly capable of being an obedient brother of the House. He was very intelligent, but he knew how to press buttons and he relished in doing so. He was selfish, childish, and lacked social tact. These were his weaknesses. No good partner, Mycroft had scolded, would appreciate his weaknesses. It was not the way of things.

He wanted to push John, the anomaly. Even on his first day he couldn't help but try and push John into anger, push him into returning him. At least at the House, he knew what was expected, and he knew exactly how to work the situation into his favor. He was a master manipulator. He hadn't, honestly, wanted to leave. But then John…

And here he is, staring out of a flat window and looking at the city lights. What is he even supposed to do with his days, his nights? His training (which he has memorized, even if he is bad at the practice) seems to be of no use here.

The leather around his wrists is a comforting weight in an increasingly confusing world.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Chapter 2. Awkwardness ensues as John tries to figure out just what in the hell he's going to do. Sherlock meets Mrs. Hudson and comes to a stunning realization about John's past. Reception on this so far has been decent. Thank you to my reviewers! :) I've enjoyed this writing exercise. It's different then what I'm used too. Enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Sherlock's body, accustomed to the ritual of the House, wakes before John. He stretches and performs his morning tasks before venturing into the kitchen. He locates the kettle easily and is just starting a pot of tea when John ambles down the hall.

At first, the doctor is startled by the presence of another man in his kitchen clad in only a white sash that hangs gracefully around his hips. "Jesus." John breathes quickly.

Sherlock turns to face him. "I've made tea. Is that all right?" His eyes narrow. He assess John's reaction. "Is my nakedness a problem?"

"Yes." John says, then stutters, "No… I mean. Damn it."

He runs a hand through his hair and drops into a seat at the kitchen table. Sherlock places a cup of tea in front of him, prepared, John notices, exactly the way he prefers. "How did you know?" John gestures to the steaming cup.

"I don't know, I notice." Sherlock says without malice. "You took your tea like this last night. We were discussing my clothing, or lack thereof."

"Sherlock, I'm just not used to men parading nearly naked around my kitchen." John's cheeks blush. That's not a phrase he figured he would say often.

"You're not gay." Sherlock states with a raised eyebrow.

John coughs on his tea. "Is that relevant?"

"It's a data point to consider."

The other man is silent for a while, then he sighs. "This is your home now too, Sherlock, how would you prefer to dress?"

The correct response, the one Mycroft taught him with a steady hand and a thin cane across his back, was to repeat the repeat the question and follow the response. There is silence across the table.

"Clothes would be…. Preferable. There's a draft from under the door, and the windows overlook the street." He watches John for any sign of disapproval. The blonde haired man only nods.

"Good. Okay." He drinks heartily from his mug. "I'll pick up some clothes while I'm out, and then we can go get something you prefer once you can be appropriately dressed. Sound good?"

"Out?"

"I've got to work today. I'll be gone until around five. Are you all right with that?"

"What should I do?"

John hadn't considered this. Judging by what he had seen yesterday, Sherlock bored was something he wanted to avoid. His eyes dart to the clock over the sink and he breathes a secret sigh of relief. "I'm going to be late. We can discuss this later, yea? Get settled here today. Mrs. Hudson, downstairs, is always open for company, and my books are fair game if you'd like to read them. It's not much. We can figure the rest out when I get home."

He stands abruptly from the table and then looks around, painfully awkward. Sherlock is still standing near the kettle with a look on his face that passes as mildly intrigued. "Yes. That's amenable to me." He says finally.

"Good. Good. Have a good day then." He grabs his bag and heads towards the door. He makes it down seven steps before he turns around and walks back into the flat. "Thanks for the tea." He says sincerely before bolting back down the stairs.

"I'm just doing my job." Sherlock says to the empty flat.

* * *

"A bloke?" Lestrade asks loudly and then, at John's glare, lowers his voice. "Christ, John, you chose a bloke?" The topic had finally be broached towards the end of the meal.

They're having lunch at the pub just down the street from John's surgery, a belated birthday gift from the detective inspector. They had been friends for nearly as long as John could remember.

"It's not…. Like that." John's voice is weak. "You know it's not like that, Greg." He rubs his right hand over his temple and picks up a chip with the left.

"Yea, okay, I know… but why him?"

John shakes his head.

"I don't know. He's different. Jesus, Greg, you've seen them. Paraded out for you like show dogs and you've got to choose. They're all lovely," He corrects himself quickly. Greg and his wife had been paired at the houses four years ago. "It's just… not my cup of tea."

"Because of Harry?" Lestrade asks after a moment.

John's eyes shut and he sighs as he leans his head back against the wall. "Yes," he admits, "Probably has a lot to do with it." He shoves the chip in his mouth to keep from saying more.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try and do the right thing by him." He says without opening his eyes.

"And what is that?"

After a while he opens his eyes and faces his friend.

"Hell if I know."

* * *

Sherlock drinks a cup of tea and then examines the bookshelves on the wall nearest the fireplace. He selects a book on tropical disease and reads it half-heartedly, flipping through pages and scanning sections without really taking them in. He watches out the window. Boredom grows, an itch in the back of his mind. He fiddles with his cuffs and then alphabetizes the books.

There are feet on the stairs and a voice accompanying them. "Brought up some tea, dears, thought you might like a bit of a…" The woman stops short when she sees Sherlock. "Oh!" She says pleasantly, undisturbed by his state of undress. "You're the one he's chosen then."

"Sherlock, madam. You're Mrs. Hudson, I presume?"

She sets the tea tray on the coffee table and looks around. "Nonsense. No need for formality here, Sherlock. Is John in?"

"He's gone to work."

"I see. I figured he would stay home today. Afterglow and all that."

Sherlock is not ashamed by sex, nor is he alarmed by it, but he feels his cheeks heat. "No. John's not… he didn't want to…"

"Oh!" She smiles and it is an inviting smile. "I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Never mind, dear, come have a cup of tea. You must be terribly confused about all this."

He sits. Company, he figures, is better than being bored. As she pours the tea he notices that she doesn't wear cuffs around her wrists, but there are pale scars there from where metal had worn the flesh. "My partner is dead." It is as if she can feel his question. "Not everyone is blessed with such nice accessories," She gestures to his leather cuffs, "And mine were put to more use than yours will ever be."

Sherlock nods in understanding.

"Tell me, Sherlock, what House did you train in?"

"Holmes." He says and then adds, "My brother is the Master there."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson smiles. "John really has brought home a prize, then. When I was younger, those trained in the Holmes household were held in very high esteem. And in the family as well!" He tries to discern any malice in her words but he cannot.

"And you?" Sherlock asks.

"O'Leery." Her smile stiffens into a line. "You probably wouldn't have heard of it."

Of course he had heard of it. Mycroft made it his business to know anything about the other houses, and if Mycroft knew then Sherlock knew—even if he wasn't supposed to. O'Leery House was known for training with incredible cruelty. Sherlock had not known this woman for more than a half hour, but he was certain her existence had not been a pretty one.

They finish the tea in comfortable silence, interrupted occasionally by Mrs. Hudson commenting on something or asking Sherlock a question. When she learns he can play the violin, she is pleased. Sherlock is pleased she doesn't demand an impromptu concert. Finally she leans back and brushes a few crumbs off of her dress.

"I should be off. Now, I'm just down the stairs. Tell me you'll come to me if you have a question? John can be," She thinks for a moment, "A bit difficult. He needs someone. I can tell why he chose you."

"I can't." He speaks before he can think and his eyes widen. He ought not to have said that. Mrs. Hudson just smiles.

"You have fire in you, Sherlock Holmes." She smirks. "You two are going to get along just fine."

* * *

John spent the rest of the day trying to figure out exactly what he was going to do, and now he is pacing back and forth between the aisles of the men's clothing store trying to figure out what will fit Sherlock and what he can afford. His phone goes off. Text message from an unknown number, seemingly garbage list of numbers but John recognizes it eventually as clothing sizes. A new message follows immediately after.

_He prefers his suits to be worsted wool, one charcoal and one black, if they have it. He prefers silk shirts in royal colors. He prefers briefs to boxers and long socks to short. Cotton on all undergarments. He despises denim. –MH_

John's eyes narrow. Those are specific instructions, and they're going to cost a pretty penny.

**How do you suppose I pay for them?**

_Funds have been deposited into your accounts to pay for anything you need. –MH_

**Isn't that a bit unconventional? Also, how did you get ahold of my bank accounts? **

_Everything about my brother is unconventional, Dr. Watson. –MH_

John notices that Mycroft Holmes never answered the question about his funds and the phone remains silent meaning an answer isn't likely to be forthcoming. He shakes his head, sighs, and walks over to the counter.

"Can I help you sir?" The attendant asks with a smile.

"Actually, yes. I need to buy quite a bit. I have the sizes here…"

* * *

The doctor returns home at six, arms laden with bags. Music floats from inside the flat. As he tops the stairs he can see Sherlock standing at the window with a violin tucked under his chin, arm moving gracefully as he draws the bow across the strings. "That's really good." John says when Sherlock notices him. "You don't have to stop. Though, I've got some clothes here for you."

Sherlock wipes the violin with a cloth and places it back in the case.

"Did they teach you that?"

"Yes. Mycroft thinks it is important to be a well-rounded individual. Everyone at the House had one musical instrument. I was…. favored."

John smiles. "I can see why."

"My clothes?" Sherlock looks at the bags.

"Yea. Maybe you could get dressed and then we could go grab dinner? I think there's a lot to talk about."

Sherlock nods and digs through the bag like a child at Christmas. His hands find a pair of briefs and a vest quickly. He releases his sash and lets it fall to the ground.

John sputters for the second time that day, but before he can turn around in indignation, Sherlock has slipped on a pair of briefs.

"I can turn my back if you prefer." Sherlock says, and there is a bit of teasing in his voice. "Honestly, aren't you a doctor? The naked form can't be anything new to you."

The blonde shakes his head. "Just..." He's cut off before he can continue.

"Don't bother explaining." Sherlock smiles. "Oh," There's a gasp associated with the revealing of a purple silk button up. "You've been talking to Mycroft." Sherlock runs his thin hands over the fabric. "He does know what I like."

John nods and feels, suddenly, very awkward. "You can take the rest to your room, when you're done." He excuses himself and goes to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

In the small room Sherlock hangs the other trousers and shirts, folds the underwear and slips on the suit jacket. He examines himself in the mirror, smirks as he tries to smooth out his hair and then leaves it curly and disheveled on top of his head.

John is waiting in the entry. "Do you like curry?" He asks when Sherlock comes down the stairs. "There's a wonderful restaur-" A knock on the door interrupts him. John opens the door to find a package on the step. "It's addressed to you."

Sherlock smiles. He takes the box and opens it. Inside there's a long coat and a deep blue scarf. His eyes light up. "It really must be my birthday." He looks to John who is looking, quite understandably, confused.

"The coat was my father's." Sherlock explains as he slips the coat over his shoulders. It falls into place as if sculpted for him. "We favor one another. Mycroft has allowed himself to grow too fat and lazy to wear it, and it seems he has passed it on to me now that I have occasion to wear it." He knots the scarf around his neck.

"You were saying there's a curry house?"

* * *

They eat in companionable silence and then order coffee. John watches Sherlock over the rim of his cup.

"Ask your questions, John." Sherlock says finally.

John sets the cup down and looks at his hand. "Are you okay with this—this arrangement, as it has played out?"

The other man considers. "May I speak freely?"

"Of course."

"I spent today cloistered in the flat. It was not unbearable, but it would quickly become tedious. At the House I had many ways to keep and maintain my attention, and I was properly corrected if my behavior became…. Less than desirable.

"There are more than enough people to work. My birth status would make it incredibly difficult to get a job of any interest to me, but there are certain," he pauses and smiles, "Pursuits that would be easily transferable to your residence. They would entertain me, and perhaps prove useful to the world at large."

"Pursuits?"

"Scientific inquiries, studying, the like. I was nearly finished with a paper on tobacco ashes when I left. It would all need to be published in Mycroft's name, of course, but the information is what is important."

"Okay. That's easy enough."

Sherlock scoffs. "You don't know what you're getting in to."

"I haven't really got a choice, do I?" John says with a bitter laugh. "I can't take you back. You were my eighth and final notice, Sherlock. If I don't keep you as a companion, then I'll be ostracized. Moved off. Taken care of. You know the stories."

"Fair enough." Sherlock's voice is surprisingly soft. "I could… make it worth your while, then." He raises an eyebrow so John knows exactly what he means.

"No." The answer is quick, emphasized by the clink of a silver spoon into the coffee cup. "No sex."

Sherlock holds up his hands in surrender, the metal on the cuffs glints in the low light. "All right." He looks slightly offended; his ego has been chipped. "My talents lie elsewhere, but I assure you, I have plenty to offer."

"Christ, Sherlock. I'm not… I mean, it's all fine… but, I just can't. Not when I think about…." John struggles for words. This conversation went tits up very quickly.

"When you think about your sister." Sherlock finishes for him. "I found a photo in your desk today." The doctor's eyes blaze for a moment, "I was just trying to understand, and Mrs. Hudson had mentioned your family." The fire dies, Sherlock continues to speak. "She looks about your age. Odd. A medical rarity to have two children born so close together. You look so much alike. But…" Sherlock's mouth purses into that small bow again, "Oh. She's your twin."

The statement hangs in the air.

"She's your twin." He looks oddly fascinated. "Your parents raised the both of you, together, but you were still the oldest."

John's eyes are closed. "Yes." He breathes finally. The tension between them is thick.

"How old were you, when they separated you?"

"Sixteen." The doctor's throat is tight around the word. "We were sixteen."

"You've never talked to her again."

"No." He works his napkin between his hands. Sherlock has his fingers perched under his chin, scrutinizing John's every movement. "And I won't." He says finally.

"Emigrated?"

"She's dead, Sherlock."

The small gasp from Sherlock's mouth is no relief.

John's words are low, filled with ice. "She was a good girl. She was a happy girl, and they broke her into pieces and tried to weld her back together and it didn't work, not for Harry. I don't care if you really did choose your path, Sherlock, don't tell me that it's better than it sounds. Don't you dare tell me she was happy!" He draws his fist up to his mouth to block the anger that threatens to flow.

Sherlock sits in silence. The restaurant isn't crowded, but they've gained an audience. The waitress brings them the bill and impatiently waits for John to fill it out.

He apologizes for the outburst and leaves a generous tip before storming out of the door.

Sherlock follows him into the cold.

* * *

They are almost back to the flat when Sherlock speaks again. "You can't change the way things are."

"I know, Sherlock. I'm sorry I was angry."

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "You can't change them, but that doesn't mean you have to like them." John nods. "There will be…. Certain things…. We have to attend to. Our interactions have certain expectations, though you may be loath to admit it."

"I know. I'm trying to work that out, okay?"

"What is there to work out?"

"Everything, Sherlock!"

"No. Not really. We lay down ground rules. A schedule. If our association is called into question, we have evidence that while we may be non-conventional we are fulfilling our duties to one another. If it goes to anything beyond that, then we handle it as it comes. I assure you I am a master of getting what I would like."

"That could work." John unlocks the door to the flat.

"Of course it will work. I was a particularly good Brother, but I was more trouble than I was worth. They will be glad to be rid of me. Mycroft should have already made that evident. You're the poor sod stuck with me, an object to be pitied not studied too intensely. We should be fine. If you trust me, that is."

Sherlock is looking at him with those intense seafoam eyes. John shakes his head and smiles despite himself. "I do, God help me. I do."

* * *

**AN:** Next chapter sometime next week. Less background, more crime solving... promise. :) Thanks guys!


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